……………………..The water ran black in the mornings.
……………………………..The soil had plenty to say
………………………………………after being
 ……………………..silent for so long.
………………………………It wasn’t even the color
………………………………………..of water
 ……………………..that propelled her
………………………………into a downward
……………………………………….spiral, but its
……………………..
fleeting action,
………………………………its constant
……………………………………….rushing away,
……………………..as if leaving
………………………………
was all it knew
……………………………………….
how to do.
……………………..
Black wasn’t worse
………………………………than the gaudy tints
……………………………………….of that half-
……………………..forgotten fall, when a careless
………………………………wind
………………………………………..licked her skin
……………………..as she sat on the porch,
………………………………watching him walk
………………………………………..back toward his life.
……………………..All those days spent
………………………………in silent admiration
………………………………………..of his voice
……………………..were water
………………………………under the bridge.
……………………………………….Never again
……………………..would she wait
……………………………..for the sound of his
……………………………………….key in the lock,
……………………..would she bother
……………………………..to look in the mirror
……………………………………….at odd
……………………..hours of the night.
……………………………..Never again
……………………………………….would she take
……………………..his scolding for a sign
……………………………..he cared.
……………………………………….The squeal
……………………..of his brakes as he peeled
……………………………..out from her driveway
……………………………………….was now, at best,
……………………..a memory of something
……………………………..she had lost,
……………………………………….at worst, a regret
……………………..for having had
……………………………..that something
……………………………………….in the first place.

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Romana Iorga, originally from Chisinau, Moldova, lives in Switzerland. She is the author of two poetry collections in Romanian: Poem of Arrival, and Simple Hearing. Her work in English has appeared, or is forthcoming, in The Normal School, Cagibi, Washington Square Review, PANK, and elsewhere, as well as on her poetry blog at clayandbranches.com.